Shadow Flight (1990)

by Joe Weber

  "Smoke!" Esteban said, swinging the periscope forward. They're on us!" The crew tensed as the Russian exchanged a concerned glance with the Cuban captain.

  "Down scope!" Esteban ordered, backing away from the attack periscope as if it were a ghost. "Dive! Dive!"

  "Negative!" the Russian countermanded sharply. "Negative! Up scope!"

  The Soviet officer grasped the periscope handles firmly, made a slight adjustment, then waited patiently. "Fire One!" the tense, sweating KGB officer ordered, then looked at the firing board lights. The bright green launch light winked on.

  A second elapsed before the General Alvarez shuddered as the powerful torpedo shot out of the flooded tube. "Fire Two!" the Russian barked. "Down scope, dive! Dive! Right full rudder! All ahead flank!" The Soviet officer shot Esteban a contemptuous glance, cold and accusing. "Rig for depth charges."

  SEA WOLF 712

  "We have screws! We've got contacts!" the Viking sensor operator shouted over the intercom system. "Two targets confirmed . . . ah, shit-tracking the carrier!"

  "We've got torpedoes!" the pilot broadcast as he prepared to drop two depth charges. "Two targets tracking Wasp!"

  The pilot of the twin-jet submarine killer, figuring that the submerged enemy would turn away from the carrier battle group, lined up his pass.

  "Seven Oh Eight," the pilot radioed to the second S-3B Viking, "make a run! Drop two hundred yards southeast of my shot."

  "Roger," the aircraft commander replied. "We're rolling in now."

  The first sub killer dropped his ordnance, bottomed out, then pulled up steeply for another pass. "One is off, clearing port."

  "Two has a tally," the second Viking pilot responded, concentrating on his lineup. He was a split second from his release point when the first two depth charges exploded, sending two huge geysers blasting out of the water.

  The pilot and copilot of the lead Viking focused on the Wasp as they rolled out of their steep, climbing turn. They could see that the assault carrier had changed course, along with the escort ships, to place the bow straight toward the torpedoes.

  "The old man," the copilot said, "is giving them the least amount to hit."

  "Yeah," the pilot replied in a tight voice. "We'll know in a few seconds."

  "Two's off," the second Viking pilot radioed, then snapped into a climbing left turn. "One's in!"

  THE WASP (LHD-1)

  The 40,500-ton carrier, bow on to the Russian-manufactured torpedoes, was slowing steadily. A senior chief petty officer ran down the length of the flight deck waving his arms, yelling for everyone to hit the deck.

  A LAMPS III pilot raced across the bow of the carrier, turned steeply, waited two seconds, then jettisoned his full load of depth charges. The heroic effort had no effect on the two fast-moving torpedoes as they sped toward the assault ship. The flight of four marine Harriers, warned about the torpedo launch, had turned away and were orbiting.

  The first torpedo, traveling at twenty-three knots, rammed the carrier and detonated in a blinding white flash. The underwater blast ripped off the bottom third of the Wasp's bow. The second Russian torpedo hit the starboard side forty yards aft of the initial impact. The explosion sent another blast and shock wave over the flight deck.

  The effects of the attack were devastating. Wasp plowed to a stop with two gaping holes in her bow. The scene on the flight deck was chaotic, as all hands attempted to help each other secure aircraft and equipment. The tall island structure, unaffected by the devastating explosions, was crammed with personnel hurrying to their battle stations.

  The huge ship, bow down twelve degrees, was taking on water rapidly. Debris rained down on the heavily damaged carrier as water surged through her forward compartments.

  A group of stunned sailors, working on the lowered flight deck elevator, had been blown overboard by the second explosion. One of the LAMPS III helicopters hovered over the men and dropped a life raft. Two of the LAMPS III helicopters, skimming low over the water, were dropping ordnance on the attack submarine.

  Wasp's escort ships moved closer to the stricken carrier while both Viking antisubmarine jets continued to track the submarine. The Viking crews, enraged by the unexpected blasts, were determined to sink the enemy sub.

  THE GENERAL ALVAREZ

  "We have to surface!" Captain Esteban shouted as water sprayed from two overhead pipes.

  "Nyet!" the Soviet officer shot back, nervously watching the water rise around his ankles. "We can't surface-they're on top of us"

  The sailors, fear showing in their eyes, were desperately trying to contain the leaks caused by the pressure surges from the depth charges. The air, smelling like oil, was stagnant, humid, and warm.

  "Torpedo room reports heavy flooding," the frightened control room talker reported to Esteban. "They . . . they want out, captain."

  "Negative!" the Russian ordered. "If they open the watertight door, we might flood the whole boat."

  Esteban paused, looking at the depth gauge, then faced the sullen Russian. "We have to take pressure off the hull before something fails."

  "We will remain at this depth," the Soviet officer commanded angrily, "until we are clear of the area."

  The hull creaked, then groaned loudly, instilling in the Cuban crew uncontrollable fear.

  "Captain," the sailor manning the diving planes said in a panic-choked voice. "I can't control . . . the bow is going down."

  Esteban stared at the diving plane indicator. The controls were in the full up position and the depth was increasing. The stricken submarine was beginning to plunge toward the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico.

  "Blow forward tanks!" Esteban ordered, ignoring the Russian. "All ahead two thirds."

  "I am in command!" the Soviet officer shouted. "I will decide when we sur--"

  CRRRAACK!!

  His statement was cut off when a weld joint on the side of the inner hull split, spraying cold water into the control room. The high-pressure discharge was like a stream from a fire hose.

  "Surface! Emergency surface!" Esteban shouted above the confusion. "Blow all tanks!"

  A rumbling noise reverberated through the submarine as the lights flickered twice and went out. "Emergency power!" the Soviet officer shouted. "Give me emergency lights!"

  "We're sinking," the diving plane operator cried. "Oh, mother of god, we're--"

  "Shut up!" the Russian bellowed. "All ahead full, blow tanks, blow tanks!"

  The crew, hysterical in the dark, sinking submarine, cried out in a high-pitched wailing. The hull creaked loudly, then ripped open in a terrifying screech, sending tons of seawater crashing into the control room.

  SAN JULIAN

  Gennadi Levchenko listened to the scrambler switch off, then placed the phone receiver down and pushed back his chair. His hands shook as he lighted a cigarette and stood.

  "Idiots," he said absently, brushing an ash off his sleeve. "Stupid bumbling idiots."

  Levchenko walked out of the communications center and headed for his office. He had ordered his deputy to return to the hangar immediately. Levchenko had major problems to solve and needed the assistance of Obukhov.

  The KGB director walked into his office, ground out his cigarette, and sat down, seething. Levchenko continuously flexed his fingers and balled his fists. His world, the career he had developed so painstakingly, was rapidly coming unraveled.

  Obukhov hurried down the hangar stairs, almost tripping on the bottom step, and rushed into Levchenko's office.

  "Sit down," Levchenko ordered, placing his forearms on the desk. "We have big problems, Natanoly Vitelevich. This operation is disintegrating, and now Castro is interfering."

  Obukhov leaned back slightly, started to speak, then decided to remain silent. He had known Levchenko long enough to become conditioned to the director's moods.

  "Castro called me," Levchenko announced, anger written across his craggy face. His eyes were like cold blue marbles embedded in the puffy white face.

  "Castro," O
bukhov said wide-eyed, "called here?"

  "He ordered me," Levchenko replied bitterly, "to have the Stealth ready to fly when his brother arrives."

  Obukhov sat petrified, uncomprehending, trying to sort out what the foreboding call meant. "What is he doing?"

  Levchenko ignored-the question and smashed out his cigarette. "Castro has declared war on the United States!"

  "War?" Obukhov responded, tilting his head slightly. "Castro declared war? Why? . ."

  "He believes that the Americans are preparing to invade Cuba . . . ," Levchenko answered, then leaned back, "to retrieve their bomber." The KGB director slammed his fist on the desk. "The sonuvabitch is like a polar bear. Castro has no fear of anything or anyone."

  Obukhov was speechless.

  "I have contacted Moscow," Levchenko said, "and our goddamned director--the hotheaded idiot who didn't want extra security here--who wanted the base to look like every other base so the satellite photos wouldn't show any change--ordered me to protect the bomber."

  Levchenko rubbed his neck. "Golodnikov said that the B-2 must be secured at any cost. The bomber is scheduled to fly a top priority secret mission. Our orders are to keep Castro's people away from the B-2," Levchenko continued, pausing to control himself, "until Golodnikov decides what action to take."

  Obukhov squeezed his knees. "You actually spoke with Golodnikov?"

  "No, goddamnit. I talked with the operations director."

  "What about the bomber?" Obukhov asked cautiously. "Are you going to prepare it for flight?"

  "Da," Levchenko answered, taking off his wire-rimmed glasses to rub the bridge of his bulbous nose. "It may eliminate the military conflict with the United States."

  Obukhov peered into the hangar. The dark charcoal-colored bomber, entrails exposed, looked forlorn. "When is Raul scheduled to arrive?"

  "I don't know. Who knows what those lunatics will do next?" Levchenko replied harshly, then changed to his unctuous manner. "Natanoly Vitelevich, I am going to need your help, to salvage what we can of this goddamned mess."

  Chapter Twenty-one

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  President Alton Jarrett, interrupted at the beginning of a meeting with the Advisory Committee for Trade Policy and Negotiations, rushed down the long corridor to the situation room.

  He met his secretary of defense a few steps from the entrance. The Joint Chiefs, along with the other members of the security team, were discussing military options available for use against Cuba. Kerchner wanted to talk with the president alone before Jarrett entered the room.

  "What happened, Bernie?" the president asked, stopping to quiz his friend.

  "AG," Kerchner replied in a somber, strained voice, "the Wasp has been torpedoed, and we have sustained heavy casualties."

  The president's face turned ashen as the magnitude of the tragedy registered in his mind. Jarrett, who normally analyzed information carefully before approaching a decision, went from shock to rage in five seconds. "Goddamn, Bernie," the president said with open emotion, "what the hell happened? Is it in danger of sinking?"

  "The flash message said that the ship was struck," Kerchner answered with a tremor in his voice, "by a submarine-fired torpedo. It isn't in danger of sinking, but the report indicates that Wasp is listing to starboard. We'll have more information in a few minutes, after the crew completes the damage control assessment."

  "Jesus Christ," Jarrett responded, grim faced. His color was deadly pale, almost gray. "Why, Bernie? What happened to our ASW cover--our air cover?"

  "I don't know, Mister President," Kerchner answered, shaking his head in frustration. "The submarine was apparently detected at the same time the torpedoes were fired."

  "Did they get the sub?"

  Kerchner looked straight into the president's eyes. "They aren't sure, sir. We'll have to wait for a detailed report."

  "Heavy casualties?" the chief of state asked.

  Kerchner's face quivered slightly. "That is the report, sir. The surface escorts reported men in the water."

  The president remained quiet, as if in a trance. Kerchner waited a few seconds, expecting Jarrett to say something. It was highly unusual for this outgoing man to be openly withdrawn.

  The president, jaw set rigid, closed his eyes a moment, then opened them. "I want Castro's military installations reduced to rubble--all of them," Jarrett said, violently agitated. "Every goddamned airfield, port, ship, airplane, radar site--everything destroyed--flattened."

  The president paused a moment, seeing the surprised look on Kerchner's face. "I want to keep this military--understand, Bernie? No cities, or civilians--just military targets."

  "Yes, sir," Kerchner replied, placing a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder. "The Joint Chiefs are working on the operation now. We will submit it for your approval as soon as the plans are finalized."

  "Bernie," the president said, glancing at the entrance to the situation room, "I want a maximum effort."

  HARTSFIELD INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, Atlanta, Georgia

  Hundreds of travelers crowded around the cocktail lounge television monitors when the president of the United States appeared on the screen. Continuous news reports, updating the Wasp tragedy, had angered and shocked people around the world. Calls for retribution had filled the airwaves as diplomatic efforts were cast aside.

  The president, looking drawn and tired, faced the television cameras. "My fellow citizens, and friends around the world, I share your grief in the Wasp tragedy. We mourn the fine young American patriots who gave their lives today . . . in a state of war declared by Cuba. We must band together to make it clear that America will exact a price from those who cause war, and from those who support them."

  Jarrett stared intently into the group of cameras. "I assure you, as president of the United States of America, that I will take the appropriate steps to stop Castro's aggression."

  Cheers and applause thundered through the huge airport, drowning out the president's final words.

  Jarrett stepped away from the podium, joining his defense secretary and other staff members, as the secretary of state stepped in front of the cameras.

  "Mister President," Kerchner said quietly, "the Joint Chiefs are prepared to present their recommendations for targeting."

  "Very well," Jarrett responded, walking rapidly out of the room.

  DIAMOND FLIGHT

  The four F-14D Tomcats from VF-102, led by Comdr. Doug "Frogman" Karns, rendezvoused over the Kitty Hawk and headed for their barrier combat air patrol station. The pilots and their radar intercept officers, reacting to the news of the Wasp, were keyed to a fever pitch.

  The expedited catapult launches and the quick ready room brief, covering the change in the rules of engagement (ROE), had heightened tensions. The new ROE stated that a pilot had to visually identify his target as an enemy aircraft, or ship, before he could fire.

  Everyone felt the visceral impact of being thrust into a shooting conflict. The strain was magnified by the close proximity to American shores.

  "Diamond One Zero Three, Wolfpack," the carrier controller radioed, "contact Phoenix, button seven."

  "Copy, button seven," Karns acknowledged, then transmitted, "Diamonds switch, now."

  The fighter pilots simultaneously switched to the new frequency and checked in with their leader.

  "Two."

  "Three."

  "Four."

  "Phoenix, Diamond One Oh Three," Karns reported to the E-2C Hawkeye airborne early warning and control aircraft. "Four Fox Fourteens."

  "Roger, Diamonds," the controller responded. "Stand by for your quadrant."

  "Diamond One Oh Three."

  The Hawkeye, one of three circling over the Gulf, would handle the fighter aircraft from the carriers Kitty Hawk and USS America.

  "Diamonds," the controller said calmly, "we have bogies in whiskey one-seven-four bravo. Flight of three . . . looks low. Your eleven o'clock for forty-five."

  "Diamond One Oh Three," Karns responde
d, then talked to his charges. "Frank, take your section out a mile and step up three thousand."

  "Diamond Three and Four movin' out," the second section flight leader replied, banking gently to the right.

  "Okay, Two," Karns radioed, "combat spread."

  "Two "

  "Diamond," the laconic Hawkeye controller paused, "your . . . ah . . . bogies at twelve for thirty-five, maneuvering."

  "Roger," Karns responded, scanning the horizon. He raised his tinted visor a few seconds, examining the sea and sky, then lowered it back in place and twisted the tension knob. "Heads up, Diamonds."

  "Warning Red," the controller called. "Weapons Hot!"

  "Arm 'em up!" Karns ordered his pilots as he leveled at 17,000 feet. "It's show time."

  "Two."

  "Three."

  "Four's hot."

  Karns keyed the intercom and queried his radio intercept officer (RIO) about the radar return on the bogies.

  "Got 'em locked, skipper."

  The F-14s, receiving continuous updates from the Hawkeye flew straight at the MiGs. At eighteen miles Karns rechecked his firing switches and fuel state, then keyed his radio. "Diamonds, let's go burner."

  At seven miles the Hawkeye called. "Check starboard, one o'clock low!"

  Karns rolled the big Grumman fighter inverted, scanning the hazy sky below his Tomcat. "Tallyho-One has a tally! MiG twenty-fives . . . confirmed."

  The Foxbats, guided by their own ground control radar site, were in trail with the third MiG weaving back and forth. They were level at 12,000 feet, going supersonic.

  "Diamond One is engaged!" Karns radioed, shoving the Tomcat's nose down.

  Karns's wingman rolled inverted and followed the lead F-14 into the fight. As Karns plunged toward the camouflaged MiGs, the lead Foxbat turned hard into the two Tomcats. The two trailing MiGs continued straight ahead, building speed, then pulled into the vertical.